


In the Spaces

by aftersoon (notboldly)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Communication, Fluff, Get Together, Holidays, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/aftersoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Coulson have a long overdue talk on Christmas Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kultiras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kultiras/gifts).



> Thanks to [what_alchemy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy) for the beta!

December wasn’t Clint’s favorite month to begin with, and spending the majority of two days stuck in a tree didn’t help. He couldn’t feel his anything, perched as he was in the snow-drenched canopy, and his fingers were wet and chilled where they gripped his bow. Yesterday’s snowstorm had caught them all by surprise, SHIELD and the bad guys both diving for cover wherever they could find it, and Clint—like he had on so many other _lucky_ missions—found himself stuck exactly where he’d been before. Freezing. In a big ass tree.

“What do you think it is, sir? A spruce?”

His answer was a thoughtful hum, the sound loud and blissfully free of background noise in Clint’s earpiece. Clint couldn’t help his grin--it looked like Coulson was at least not buried in snow. Probably tucked safely in the van; it was a relief.

“Maybe. It has needles, I’m guessing?”

It did, and they trembled under the weight of the snow and wind. Clint sympathized.

“Yes sir.”

“Probably a spruce then.” 

This conversation was inane, and Coulson was most likely humoring him so he'd forget that he was freezing to death. It made Clint smile anyway, because very few people humored him. Most just ignored him.

Then again, ignoring him was kind of the point, since he was a sniper and all.

"Sir, I'm freezing my ass off out here. I don't see any movement, either, and haven't for about ten hours."

There was another humming noise, but this time it was accompanied by the whisper of paper and someone, possibly Agent Jackson, saying something in the background. Clint waited, and was rewarded when Coulson came back on the line.

"The surrounding agents can confirm, Agent—no one has left that house since the storm ended."

The words reminded Clint of other missions, of villains who found any option better than being taken alive, and acted on it. It was a bad sign, and Clint didn't wait for the order before he began climbing down from his perch. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. had already stormed the property by the time Clint's feet hit the ground, and the lack of gunfire—and of noise period—worried him. He burst through the doors, gun at the ready beside the remaining members of the assault team, and found those who'd entered before him frozen in place.

Well, Jackson had been right: nobody had left.

Unfortunately, nobody was alive either.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Clint said what everyone was thinking.

"Well, shit."

****

The entire operation was pronounced an extremely embarrassing failure for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the W.S.C. both, and while it wasn't strictly the fault of any of the agents involved, the blame fell squarely on the easiest targets. Clint made it back to headquarters only to find himself with an unanticipated ten day "vacation," and he didn't have to ask to know that it was largely due to Fury and Hill fighting direct orders to fire him. Being what was technically a probationary agent—for the _second_ time, because his life was excellent that way—royally sucked, and it was with a near-paranoid reluctance that he handed over his bow, signed over his ID card and gear, and left without a fuss.

The cherry on the evening was definitely Coulson escorting him out, looking about as pissed as Clint had ever seen him. Considering he at least still had his ID, Clint could guess the cause, and it made him happier than it should have, all things considered.

"Aw, sir, don't feel that way. No worries—I'm going to Bali," Clint said, voice intentionally light as he kept pace. As he expected, Coulson gave him a disbelieving look.

"Indonesia? You wouldn't even make it off the flight. March 2008, remember?"

"There is that. Kyrgyzstan, maybe?"

"If you're trying to make me feel better about this, it isn't working." Coulson sighed, and Clint watched his fingers give a frustrated jerk at his side. It was a little surprising; Coulson actually seemed bothered by his not-quite suspension, and it was more than just his usual annoyance with the council's decisions. Hell, it was more emotion than he'd seen from him, good or bad, since The Incident. "I can't believe they're pinning this on you."

"It's okay," Clint said, and he was entirely sincere, previous joking aside. "It could be worse, and I can always use the vacation. Get out, see the world. Don't shoot anything."

Coulson seemed appropriately amused at that, humoring Clint with a slight twitch of his lips before he went back to being appropriately annoyed. 

"You're just going to sit on your couch and marathon Christmas movies." Coulson looked at him briefly, a knowing snap of his gaze that made Clint shiver reflexively. "And you're going to eat leftovers and snickerdoodle cookies, like you do every year. Am I right?"

"Well, it is the season," Clint answered mildly, not sure what Coulson was going for. He almost sounded…sad, or upset rather, but that was impossible: Phil Coulson wore professionalism like he wore Armani, and there weren't many people who'd seen him without either.

(Clint deliberately ignored that there'd been a time when he'd seen him without _both_ , the same way he'd been ignoring it for months.)

"It is the season," Coulson agreed with a barely perceptible frown , and then he slowed his pace and took a deep breath. Despite the signs and Clint patiently waiting, Coulson didn't say anything else for several seconds, a silence that weighed on Clint even as he dutifully matched his steps.

"Clint," Coulson finally said, the word almost sharp in its brusqueness. "Are you doing anything for Christmas?"

Clint shrugged, not seeing the importance of the question although all his instincts were screaming that he should.

"Not really." Clint glanced at Coulson out of the corner of his eye, found him looking stern and blank. Uncertainty crept up Clint's spine. "Should I be?"

Coulson's eyes flicked towards him again, then away. "No. I just wondered." Coulson looked down as they turned the corner, his gaze fixed on the beige tile with a concentration usually reserved for complicated mission reports or greasy diner menus. "I was just wondering if you'd mind stopping by. We need to talk."

Clint didn't understand, but then Coulson looked at him with that same blank look, and it immediately made sense. Even at their slower pace, Clint was surprised he didn't trip over his own feet in surprise, because they'd needed to talk for _months_ , and Coulson had apparently chosen _Christmas_ as the time to do it.

Whichever way he looked at it, Clint couldn't see that as a good sign. 

"Yeah," Clint said, and he was surprised his voice didn't come out a painful croak. "Yeah, sure. We can do that." It sounded about as awkward as he felt, and when Coulson nodded, it was with a finality Clint didn't like. Clint wondered if it was too late to make plans to be _anywhere else_ for Christmas. Claim forgetfulness (cowardice.)

When Coulson handed him a business card, Clint knew his window had disappeared.

"My address is written on the back—" and that somehow made it worse, that Coulson wasn't asking him to come to his office or to a conference room, that he'd rather have their talk outside of a professional setting. "—so show up whenever you find the time."

The invitation was phrased very nicely, but Clint didn't buy it for a second. When they reached the exit doors and Coulson left him with barely a nod of goodbye and another twitch of his fingers, all of Clint's bad feelings seemed justified. Clint swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his fingers itching for a bow. 

It looked like his grace period was finally up.

****

Clint lasted all of two days before he caved to his late-December routine of Christmas movies and cookies, but if asked, he'd say his easy surrender was largely the fault of Stark Tower. Between access to a beautiful kitchen and the fact that Tony had a video library that would make any collector weep, Clint couldn't bring himself to be stubborn for very long, not even to prove a point to an absent Coulson. December 23rd saw Clint up at 2:30 in the morning, scraping the side of a mixing bowl and portioning out cookie dough with unnecessary precision while the end of _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ played in the background, and Clint couldn't really bring himself to regret it. This, at least, was the normal part of his holidays, and if he curled up on the couch and felt just a little lonely to be doing the routine by himself, at least he had more cookies to show for it.

By December 24th, Clint was going stir-crazy, and it was mostly willpower that kept him from sneaking back onto S.H.I.E.L.D. property to put in time at the range or just generally make a nuisance of himself. (Well, willpower and the fact he wanted to actually live to see another day.) He distracted himself by peeking in on the science experiment Bruce and Tony were up to (something _edible_ , which was nothing Clint ever wanted to sample ever) but by the evening, there was nothing left to do.

Being restless wasn't a problem the following day, largely because Clint poured all of his energy and nerves into pretending that it wasn't Christmas, absolutely not. Although he knew from the start it was doomed to failure, his efforts were admirable, culminating in actual surprise when someone wished him a happy holiday. Between the science dream team with their successfully engineered luminescent cookies and the well-wishing Avengers, it was a miracle Clint had managed to carry on as long as he had, and by afternoon he had run out of denial and out of snickerdoodles. He grabbed his coat, intending to go for a walk. Just a walk.

His walk led him directly to Coulson's apartment, courtesy of the business card he'd stupidly brought with him. It was a fair distance from Stark Tower to where Coulson claimed he lived, but even so, Clint couldn't say the air did him any favors. By the time he'd reached the painfully average apartment building, Clint was a bundle of nerves, jittery like he hadn't been since he was a kid performing for an audience for the first time. The parallels were uncomfortable, and he tried to talk himself down even as he pictured Coulson waiting for him, fully intent on skewering him with his gaze as soon as the door opened.

 _Remember, Clint, silence isn't always a bad thing._ The reminder didn't work. _Even if it's been two months, that doesn't really mean anything_. That didn't help either, and it was only sheer willpower that kept Clint climbing the stairs. It was only the fact that Coulson was right, that they _did_ need to talk, that had brought him here in the first place.

Clint reminded himself of that fact as he climbed four flights of stairs, and as he knocked on apartment 517 with his usual cheer. By the third knock, Clint could hear sounds of moving inside, and he braced himself for whatever waited on the other side of the door.

Coulson was…not what he was expecting. Clint didn't know if it was the fact that he was wearing an apron over a frankly god-awful reindeer sweater or if it was more the expression he wore, welcoming and open and relieved as he gestured him inside, but whatever it was, Clint felt both off balance and unprepared.

The worst part, however, was the fact that Clint took one step inside and was immediately assaulted with the smell of pine, an overwhelming dose that seemed to be coming from the _fake_ Christmas tree in the far corner of his living room. Clint didn't gag, but it was a near thing, and he wrinkled his nose instinctively.

Coulson saw his expression, and the look he shot Clint was sheepish. Without a word, Coulson took his coat and steered him into the homey-looking kitchen, where the smell was lessened if not entirely gone.

"Sorry about that. The tree came with pine scent to go in the base, but I must have used too much. It's been like this for four days."

Clint nodded in perfectly feigned understanding, and when Coulson offered him a drink and a seat, Clint waved the drink away but sat at the rustic kitchen table. Between the pine smell and the homemade feel of the place, Clint was feeling a little dizzy, and that was before Coulson leaned close enough for Clint to notice he smelled…different. Not quite like pine, thank God, but the smell also wasn't Coulson's usual cologne. Clint had smelled Coulson's cologne on the pillow next to him after long missions, and it was something strong and woodsy, the sort of cologne sold in men's department stores under signs that were full of encouragement to _be the man you wanna be_. It didn't really seem like Coulson's style, but after a decade of close contact, Clint had gotten used to the fact that a lot of things Coulson did seemed off. As for the cologne, Clint had gotten used to it too, even liked it more than he was willing to admit.

But now? Coulson smelled like _peppermint_.

"Peppermint, Coulson? What are you, the spirit of Christmas?"

Coulson shot him an unamused look, but Clint didn't entirely buy it. He felt his shoulders relax almost against his will, because this was _Coulson_. Weird and normal and not entirely what Clint expected, but Coulson all the same.

"I was making peppermint bark," Coulson said, gesturing to the sink where the evidence remained. Clint realized it was more the kitchen that smelled like peppermint, but he couldn't really blame himself for getting confused. The Christmas pine had probably burned out his sense of smell anyway.

But that, of course, brought up another question, and Clint couldn't resist asking.

"You make candy?"

Coulson shrugged and pulled a coffee mug from the nearest cabinet.

"My mother did, and it's not as hard as people think if you stick to the classics. Caramels, peanut brittle. Those sorts of things."

Clint nodded, mind a little stuck on _peanut brittle oh God_ , and he watched Coulson putter around the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee and looking generally content with his home and Clint's presence. It was nice, and Clint—despite his best efforts—wondered if Coulson was actually opposed to Christmas movies, to cuddling on the couch and keeping each other warm.

Well, not with Clint obviously, but it was nice to think Coulson might actually want that with someone. Nice, but painful.

Clint was sure the thought showed on his face, and Coulson looked almost absurdly gentle when he sat in the chair next to him rather than across the table.

Clint waited, and although he knew they needed to talk about The Incident, he couldn't bring himself to burn that bridge quite yet.

Unfortunately, Coulson was braver than him, and all it took was a few seconds of silence before Coulson set his coffee aside and looked at Clint with a complicated expression.

"All right, Clint. How about I start?"

****

Clint had changed his mind. He wasn't ready for this. At all.

"We don't have to talk about it," Clint interrupted a little desperately, already knowing the offer wouldn't work. Why would it? Clint had done a lot of stupid things in his life, but sucking off Phil Coulson in the little S.H.I.E.L.D. gym that passed for a physical therapy center definitely numbered among the top. He had no excuse except that he hadn't been able to help himself, because Coulson had finally been able to complete his exercises without pain, after months of trying. His arms had been shaking, but the sheer _joy_ on his face had lit up everything, and Clint had been a goner years ago. That morning had just been the final straw.

Coulson hadn't turned him down, but that didn't mean anything. Clint had met straight guys who would accept a blowjob from anyone, and although Coulson had buried his fingers in Clint's short hair and come with a gasp, it didn't mean that his string of girlfriends didn't exist.

Coulson had looked so surprised afterwards, and he'd tried his best to ignore Clint outside of missions for over two months. Clint had taken the hint, and pushed whatever hurt and confusion there was to the side.

Coulson wasn't ignoring him now.

"We do, actually. Clint…" Coulson breathed out and pushed his hand through his hair, frustration visible on his face. "I've handled this badly."

 _No shit_ , Clint wanted to say, and would have said under any other circumstances. He kept the reflex down for all of two seconds.

"No shit, Coulson." Coulson laughed at the response, the sound startled and short, and Clint found a minor victory in that. "You could've said 'forget about it' months ago, you know." It wasn't an order Clint was entirely sure he could have obeyed, but it would have been better than the silence.

Coulson evidently didn't agree, and he was looking at him like he'd just suggested retirement, or something equally horrific. He was sitting there in his stupid reindeer sweater, smelling like some horrible mix of peppermint and pine, and Clint only had to look at his serious face to realize that somehow he'd completely missed the mark.

"I don't want to forget about it." Clint felt his mouth go slack with surprise, and Coulson looked away. "If it was just a one-off thing, fine, but I get the feeling it…wasn't."

Clint didn't have to ask, but he did anyway.

"You've been talking to Natasha, haven't you? That dirty rat."

Coulson smiled apologetically, and Clint was a little charmed.

"She came to talk to me, actually. About a week ago." He folded his hands neatly, rested them on his knee, and Clint found the gesture familiar and endearing both. "She didn't spill any of your secrets, but I'm not an idiot." He glanced up at Clint, the apologetic smile once again in place. "Well, these past few months notwithstanding."

Clint didn't know what to say, and it was a first for him. When he recovered, he immediately wished he hadn't.

"Does that mean you…like me?" Clint heard the question come out of his mouth, and he could have smacked himself. That was it, it was official—Tony was rubbing off on him. Clint swore there was no other way he'd ask a question that made him sound like he was in junior high.

Judging by the look Coulson shot him, he found it endearing more than anything. Endearing, and maybe a little sad.

"Clint, I've always liked you." Coulson spoke like it was undeniable fact, like Clint was foolish for doubting. "It just never occurred to me that it would go anywhere."

"Never?"

"Not until about three months ago." The timeline didn't line up, three months coinciding with exactly nothing strange or different in their lives, and Coulson nodded when he saw Clint realize that. "Yes, three. I'm…not really sure why."

Clint didn't ask what about the change, because it wasn't important. What was important was the way Coulson was looking at him, waiting. Anticipating.

Clint swallowed, suddenly wishing he'd accepted the offered drink.

"And now?"

Coulson licked his lips, and Clint mirrored him. The look on Coulson's face said everything.

"I'm game if you are," Coulson said, and his voice was just shy of husky. "For the entire package. To go wherever it takes us."

Clint smiled, and did his best to cross the distance between them at lightning speed.

"I'm game," he said, and Coulson leaned forward. Clint put a hand out to stop him, still smiling. "But first, we need to get you out of that sweater."

****

Clint had always suspected that Coulson was secretly amazing at everything, but there was a big difference between knowing in an abstract way and having Coulson kneeling between his legs, doing his damndest to swallow him whole. Clint would have said he was surprised at how quickly they'd gotten here, but he'd been at a loss for words ever since Coulson had let Clint strip him of his sweater, Coulson unashamed of the scar tissue on his chest and back.

It was a little hot, and it became a lot hot when Coulson yanked a cushion off the nearest chair ("There's nothing sexy about sore knees," Coulson had assured him, which Clint didn't immediately understand) and kneeled without another word.

"Um," Clint had said, and Coulson had laughed, which was really the best part of it all.

"Just tell me what you like, or if you want to stop," Coulson had said, running his hands up Clint's thighs with a hungry expression that seemed unwarranted for just Clint sitting quietly in jeans. Clint hadn't understood it, but that wasn't a bad thing, and all it had taken was Coulson's hands on his zipper before he'd come to his senses and helped him along.

It had taken only a few aborted attempts before Coulson had caught on to the fact that Clint liked it slow and wet, and now, Clint was breathing hard, his fingers clenched too hard in Coulson's hair but his thumb gentle where it brushed his jaw.

"Coulson," Clint gasped out, and Coulson pulled away. Clint made a sound of loss, but the feeling was temporary, and ended when Coulson simply said "Phil" and went back to it.

It wasn't how Clint had planned to spend his Christmas, but whatever the circumstances, getting a blowjob in Coulson's kitchen definitely made his holiday. It was over too quickly, embarrassingly so, but Clint couldn't bring himself to regret it when Coulson licked his lips, looking as pleased as Clint had ever seen him.

"Now," Coulson—Phil—said, straightening enough to look calm and composed, even while crouched on the floor. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

****

End

**Author's Note:**

> I had a fun time writing this, so thanks to kultiras for providing an easy exchange list to work with. :) Also, the title is inspired by this quote from Peter Drucker: “The most important thing in communication is to hear what isn't being said.”


End file.
